


Wet Dreams

by glacis



Category: Star Wars: Episode 1 - The Phantom Menace
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2010-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:53:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi Wan gets seasick, and Qui Gon cures him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wet Dreams

Wet Dreams, a Phantom Menace PWP rated NC17 for unadulterated sex. For L, and Thanks to M, for the enthusiasm and the inspiration, in that order. The red looks incredible on Obi Wan, M, and the blue matches Qui Gon's eyes ...

 

It had been the mission from Hell. If the Jedi believed in hell, and if hell was a water world.

Obi Wan Kenobi was used to politicians, used to negotiations that took forever, used to frustration. Used to cramped quarters, used to sharing a bed with his Master in said cramped quarters, even used to occasionally donning native dress when Jedi robes were considered impractical or culturally unacceptable.

He wasn't used to being so damned seasick that all his concentration and shielding had to be diverted to keeping his stomach under control.

Split concentration, combined with close quarters, hot nights, and an utter lack of other diversions, was a recipe for disaster. The native costume didn't help matters.

The ambassadors had taken one look at their Jedi robes and refused to have anything to do with them. Something about ancient religions, and wizards, and gremlins, or perhaps they'd meant grim men. It was hard to translate the dialects, at times. Determined to do what had to be done to push the negotiations ahead, Master Jinn and Padawan Kenobi put aside their superstition-inducing robes and did their best to blend in. The ambassadors were very happy to provide what they considered appropriate clothing, dumping a double arm-load of fabric on the single bunk in the Jedis' cabin. Qui Gon sighed and stripped off. Obi Wan glanced up at his master, and froze.

Qui Gon looked at Obi Wan.

Obi Wan looked down, quickly, at the clothing.

"Lace?" he asked weakly.

"Lace." Qui Gon rose and moved to inspect the costumes. Obi Wan sank back onto the bunk, and stared.

Not at the clothes.

His skin flushed, and he took a deep breath. Ignoring the roil of his stomach, he concentrated on the heat below it, and chanted mantras denying passion under his breath. With passion.

"And brocade. And metalwork." Qui Gon held up a doublet of sky blue, embroidered with sweeping leaves, delicate knotwork and eye-dizzying zig-zags of gold. In his other hand, he held a sheer lawn shirt with full sleeves caught at the wrist, wide lace falling from the bindings.

"Put it on." Obi Wan looked around for an instant before realizing the words had come from him. Hurriedly, he tried to muster a logical argument. "We must expedite the peace talks, Master. We can't do it in our own clothes. We certainly can't do it nude, which is what we'll be if we don't wear what they give us. So, uhm, perhaps it would be best for the moment if you put them on?"

Qui Gon stared at him for a moment. "Are you feeling well, Padawan? You appear to be suffering from a fever." And you're babbling, Obi Wan heard without it being said.

Not wanting to argue, and needing to camouflage the affects his Master's naked form was having on his own body, Obi Wan climbed off the bunk and determinedly reached for the second set of clothing. "It seems the sensible thing to do, Mas-"

Yikes. Bright. The heavy fabric dragging at his hand caught his complete attention, as it was no doubt intended to do, given its pattern. It was deep crimson, woven in an Imperial pattern of emerald, sapphire and pure saffron, accent threads of gold running over and around the striking design. Black braid edged the sides and front, framing the vivid pattern and contrasting sharply with the pure white of the shirt given to wear under it. Refusing to admit that he felt completely ridiculous, he squeezed into the white leggings, stamped his feet into the heavy black boots, and shrugged into the sheer white shirt.

Very sheer.

With no buttons.

Just lace, even wider and more ornate than that edging his Master's shirt. It fell around his neck and down to his waist, and fell again from his wrists over his hands, a complicated array of threads that should have looked utterly feminine around his hands.

Oddly enough, it didn't.

Refusing to think about that, either, he jerked the doublet around his torso, cinching the wide black belt around his waist, ignoring the flowing metalwork of the buckle, yanking the pointed ends of the doublet down to pull it flat, trying his best to ignore the naked feeling where the buttonless shirt left him bare from the base of his throat to the belt at his waist. Half defiant, half embarrassed, he whipped his braid over his shoulder, squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath.

Turning to face Qui Gon, his glare challenged his Master to laugh, or lecture him, or do anything other than put his own damned pirate outfit on and join his apprentice in the charade.

Qui Gon stood there and stared at him.

Dark blue eyes widened, then narrowed, and seemed to go black. Large hands clenched into the blue fabric they still held, kneading it, then freezing. Obi Wan watched in fascination as his Master swallowed, then swallowed again. After what felt like several years of being stared at like a bug under glass, he got a little testy. He just _knew_ Qui Gon was trying not to laugh at him, and while he appreciated the effort, standing here staring at one another would not get them off this blasted water-ball any faster.

"Well?" he finally demanded when his Master continued to stand there, silent, watching, completely still. His voice seemed to break the odd paralysis holding Qui Gon in its grip, and his Master swallowed once more before turning away to dress himself.

It was Obi Wan's turn to stand, spellbound. Qui Gon pulled deep brown leggings over legs Obi Wan had never before realized were quite so long. Then even darker brown boots, followed by the billowing shirt that was just as buttonless as Obi Wan's had been. The lace on it was thinner, less ornate, only around his neck and wrists. As Qui Gon shouldered into the sky blue doublet, the gold seemed to dance in the sunlight, drawing attention to the skin bared between the gold-edged material. A wide brown belt clasped the narrow waist, setting off the slender hips and wide shoulders, and Obi Wan found himself swallowing.

His throat was the only thing that could have moved at that moment, even to save his life. Well, his throat, and his crotch. He ever-so-casually draped his clasped hands in front of the bulge in the clinging material and wished fervidly for his enveloping robes. Qui Gon raked him from scalp to sole once, opened his mouth, closed it without saying a word, and turned to lead the way to the top deck.

Obi Wan stared after the vision in tight brown fabric in front of him and wondered how he could have gotten to this stage in his life without ever realizing what incredible hind quarters his Master had. Qui Gon glared over his shoulder for an instant. Obi Wan's own eyes widened, and he clamped the thought as far down into his subconscious as he could and followed his Master up topside.

He had several long, painstakingly boring hours of fruitless negotiations ahead of him. There was plenty of time for hammering down lustful thoughts, helped along by rounds of seasickness that sent him to the railing at the side of the ship more than once. He was absolutely miserable.

It set the pattern for their mission. Mornings were bursts of lust followed by ruthless denial. Days teetered between listening to useless bickering and wanting to die, when not actually hanging over the side of the ship. Nights were a torment of swimming out from groggy-headed Force-induced naps only to lie there for hours staring at his naked Master, just to get up in the morning and stare at him again, in those _leggings_ and that _doublet_ and all that _lace_ and those _boots_.

The seasickness was almost a relief. At least it conquered the lust.

Sometimes.

After fifteen days of fighting to control himself on deck, retain his dignity and not disgrace himself hanging over the side, and fifteen nights of torturing himself watching the moonlight gleam off Qui Gon Jinn's skin, Obi Wan was at the breaking point.

On the sixteenth night, he cracked.

 

Qui Gon waved his hand over Obi Wan's face, watching the heavy eyes fall shut under his Forceful suggestion. Shadows under those eyes made the thick lashes seem even darker than usual. His Padawan was not bearing up well under the physical strain of the mission. He knew the young man wasn't getting nearly enough rest, even with his own Force orders reinforcing his sleep. He'd not realized Obi Wan would fall prey to such debilitating seasickness. Of course, they'd never been so long on a water-world before, so it hadn't ever been an issue.

He, himself, wasn't doing nearly as well as he should. He kept finding himself ... distracted. He was concerned about his Padawan, of course. That was why, every time he looked over to see Obi Wan bent over the side of the ship, he lost track of whatever he was saying. Concern. Yes, that was it.

It couldn't be the leggings. He swallowed. Well, perhaps, in a concerned sort of way, it might be the outfit. There was something about those leggings, on those strong, sturdy legs, that deep red and gold of the doublet highlighting Obi Wan's skin, painting his eyes a deeper blue, bringing a flush to his cheeks. A flush they'd needed of late. The protective thought triggered an idea.

Closing his eyes and working delicately, he manipulated the Force within Obi Wan, reaching through the bonds between them to re-order Obi Wan's shielding. Qui Gon buttressed his Padawan's strength against the motion of the ship, weaving the natural defenses within Obi Wan to buffer his physical systems against the disruptive motion of their surroundings. When he was finished, he breathed a sigh of relief. Why they hadn't thought of this before, he didn't know, but his Padawan would not suffer from the sea this night.

"Sweet dreams," he whispered, and lay down to his own slumber.

 

Deep in the grips of Force-induced sleep, Obi Wan felt something shift. The heavy lid of repression he kept on his deepest desires was unbolted, and those bolts were moved, taken from his heart and put in place around his stomach. For the first time in weeks, his system settled down completely, and he relaxed into the first real sleep he'd had since planetfall.

In the depths of his subconscious, all the urges he'd been tamping down took a running lunge at the lid. Without the bolts to hold it, it flew off. Feelings, needs, seeped to the surface of his mind, and in the sleepers, found fertile ground.

His dreams were sweet, indeed.

 

Qui Gon Jinn seldom dreamed. His strength was in the moment, in connection to reality on all its levels. When he did dream, they were thin phantoms, with no substance, no color, no grip on his mind.

He had absolutely no defense against what this particular dream did to him.

On the deck of a godforsaken ship on a waterlogged world he stood, alone in a crowd. Obi Wan stood before him, resplendent in white and crimson, black at his waist and on his feet, soft lace falling at his hands and his throat, a trail of fine thread drawing a complicated pattern along the sides of his bared chest. His neck rose long and slim from the drape of lace and heavy fabric, his head thrown back, eyes closed against the sun. His feet were planted far apart, his fists on his hips, tight white trousers clinging lovingly to every line of his legs. The wide inverted vees of the heavy crimson doublet below the belt framed an impressive erection, flaunted by the thin white material. He laughed, and the sound surrounded Qui Gon, drew him in, pulled him close.

Close enough to share a breath, then Obi Wan stared up at him, cocked his head to one side, and chuckled softly. Turned. Threw a glance over his shoulder that was both invitation and challenge. Walked to the handrail at the side of the deck.

Bent over the rail.

This time, it wasn't to be sick. This time, that ginger head didn't bow. The knuckles weren't clamped white, they were relaxed, fingers caressing the rail, not hanging on for dear life.

Not yet.

The high, tight buttocks he'd been unconsciously staring at for the last two weeks thrust back in the tight pants, an unmistakable invitation. Bright blue eyes winked at him over one crimson-clad shoulder.

"You know you want it." Deep, growling laughter under the calm tones. Long fingers slid back and over the straining muscles of his hips and ass, a blatant signal of precisely what Obi Wan himself wanted.

Yes. Qui Gon did want it. Had been wanting it for years. How had he managed to ignore it all this time? It felt like he was drunk, all his inhibitions flowing away with the water surrounding them.

Ignoring the ambassadors still bickering behind him at the table, the sailors moving about the deck, everyone and everything other than the man draped across the railing, he moved forward.

His right hand went to the small of Obi Wan's back, fingertips brushing across the heavy worked fabric of the doublet, tracing the lower edge of the wide belt. The slight flare of hips was exaggerated by Obi Wan's posture, feet planted widely apart, thighs spread, inviting his touch. Wide shoulders shook, infinitesimally, a shudder of anticipation. Long fingers stopped caressing the wooden railing and gripped tightly, prepared for whatever Qui Gon would offer.

Or take.

His left hand slid gently around Obi Wan's waist, tracing the belt along the top edge until his fingertips tangled in the lace at the edge of the shirt. A push further, and his hand slid inside the fabric along stomach and ribs, tracing the hard muscles under the warm skin. Moving closer, luxuriating in the heat rising from the smaller body trapped between his own bulk and the ship's railing, he dropped his head forward and bit lightly into the side of Obi Wan's neck at the same time that his fingers reached up to tweak sharply at one nipple.

He was rewarded with a gasp that melted into a moan, and an urgent thrust backward of those buttocks into his pelvis. The erection he hadn't been aware he had enjoyed the movement, and he rocked forward to heighten the sensation. Obi Wan arched back into his arms, short hair bristling softly against his shoulder.

"More." The command sounded like it came from his Padawan's boot-soles. He could do nothing but obey.

His right hand moved to join his left, unbuckling the wide belt and dropping it to the deck behind them. The leggings followed, peeled down over muscular thighs to pool around the tops of the shining black boots. Obi Wan preened for him, the starched edging of the crimson doublet an exciting contrast to the creamy skin below it, the pretense of binding caused by the boots trapped in the leggings adding spice to the pose. One hand continued to roam Obi Wan's chest as the other hastily undid his own leggings, freeing his angry erection, cooling the heat against the flesh awaiting him.

"Now." A demanding wriggle made it quite clear that Obi Wan wanted to be fucked, and was tired of waiting for it. Qui Gon moved to the command again, bending his knees and leaning closer over Obi Wan's back, thrusting his knees between his Padawan's, lining himself up for entry. Being a dream, there was no need or thought for such petty considerations as preparation, and he slid home as slickly as if Obi Wan had been spreading his legs for years.

For some reason, that thought was almost unbearably exciting. He straightened, ramming home, lifting Obi Wan completely off his feet with the force of his thrust. A garbled cry greeted the move, and he clamped his hands on the slim hips, withdrawing almost completely but holding Obi Wan against the rail so he couldn't move, couldn't regain his feet. Then he slammed into him again, jolting a sound closer to a scream than a moan from Obi Wan. Out again, leaving only the tip of his cock in the grasping hole, then back in, hard, deep, rocking them both, over and over.

It had never been this sweet. Never been this good. Even in his dreams, it had never been this incredible.

Especially in _his_ dreams.

 

Obi Wan was bent nearly double, his only anchor Qui Gon's hands, pulling him back on that greedy cock, ramming him against the railing, then pulling him back again, and his own hands, gripping the railing until his fingers cramped. He felt like he was flying, drowning, being pounded into oblivion, then drawn back for more. Qui Gon felt huge inside him, thrusting so deeply he could feel it in his throat, splitting him apart, then whipping back out, leaving him empty, aching. Back in, so hard he couldn't help but howl at the ecstatic spike of pleasure pounding in his ass, his brain, shaking him to his fingertips. Out, and unbearably empty, then in, and too full to believe, over and over and over until nothing existed but the vice-grip on his hips, the slam of flesh ripping into him, the sucking sound of withdrawal and return, the slap of skin and muscle between sweat-slicked bodies.

He couldn't move, didn't dare let go of the railing to grip his own cock, full to bursting, scraping painfully against the railing with every thrust. It hurt unlike anything he'd ever felt and felt so incredibly good he never wanted it to end. Every deep thrust crushed his cock on one side and pummeled his prostate on the other, and all he could do was scream along for the ride.

Even in dreams, it couldn't last. Without a touch other than the bruising of the railing, his balls drew up and his cock convulsed, his ass clamping down as Qui Gon went deep within him and froze. Whipped into him, one spasm, a second, a third. All strength gone, Obi Wan folded over the railing. Qui Gon's hands slid up from his hips under his shirt again, brushing against tight nipples, a last flare of arousal before sliding up to his shoulders and easing him off the railings.

Strong hands turned him, and he looked up into deep blue eyes, pupils inky and expanded nearly to the rim of the irises. Eyes that swallowed the sky. Swallowed him. Yes.

Please.

Again.

He tangled his hands in the soft fall of hair above him and pulled his Master's face down to his. Crushing their lips together he devoured the man, pouring years of devotion and months of desire into the act. One leg slid along the bed, ankle hooking around Qui Gon's, then sliding up to catch him behind the knee, drawing their bodies tightly together. His erection, resurgent at the contact, slid against Qui Gon's, sparking an avalanche of need in him.

It felt incredibly good. So hot, so needy. So real.

"Padawan." Muttered against his mouth, it was almost impossible to understand. But he did, anyway, feeling it more than hearing it. Feeling, as well, the shock and arousal moving between them, lighting up the Force around them like lightning on a dry night.

Obi Wan froze.

When had he woken up? And why hadn't he noticed?

Then Qui Gon moved, and he knew why.

His Master wasn't fighting him. His Master was making love to him.

 

Struggling to the surface of his dream, knowing from the sweet taste of sweat on his lips and the heavy weight of a warm body in his arms that it wasn't his dream he was feeling, Qui Gon opened himself to the Force and did what he did best -- lived in the moment. Seeing past the surface sensuality to the yearning behind the dream, he realized he'd unwittingly stripped his Padawan of his last defenses against what felt like an overwhelming love.

For him.

Sensations flooded over him, overwhelming him, nearly drowning him in need. Desire. Affection. Respect. Devotion. Passion.

Love.

He was in motion almost before he realized it, reacting to the reality buried within the fantasy. Obi Wan not only wanted him, he lived for him.

As Qui Gon lived for Obi Wan.

Determined to go where the Force was leading him, or in this case dragging him, and deciding to let the consequences wait for the light of day for once, Qui Gon rolled their entwined bodies over until he was atop his Padawan, shifting them both to keep them from rolling right off the bunk. Lowering his face until their mouths met, he took Obi Wan's mouth in their first kiss.

Obi Wan woke up. Kissed him back. Froze in place. And stared at him like a Sith had slithered in and taken over his body when no one was looking.

Following his instincts, Qui Gon kissed him again. Mouth, eyes, cheeks, jaw, temple, throat. Nips along his collarbone, over his chest, at his nipples, along his ribs. His hands weren't idle, either. Stroking, rubbing, patting over Obi Wan's shoulders, along his hips, spreading his thighs gently and settling between them. A startled moan broke his concentration and he looked up to see huge dilated blue eyes staring down at him. He smiled slightly then, not breaking eye contact, he leaned down and swallowed Obi Wan whole.

The moaning started again. Every exhalation was a moan, a prayer, an encouragement. Qui Gon took them all, and responded with a steady rhythm, pulling back then pushing forward, taking the length of cock down his throat then swallowing around it before pulling back up to begin the cycle again. It didn't take long before Obi Wan was writhing uncontrollably, only the iron bar of Qui Gon's arm over his stomach keeping him in the bunk. With a strangled scream he stiffened, and Qui Gon pulled back one final time. With one hand cradling the tensed balls and the other wrapped around the spasming cock, he milked it firmly, gentling his strokes as Obi Wan finally relaxed, utterly spent.

Gathering the slick fluid in his left hand, Qui Gon rose to his knees over Obi Wan's splayed body. "Watch," he commanded quietly, and Obi Wan fought to raise his eyelids. When he knew he had his Padawan's attention, he spread Obi Wan's semen over his erection and pumped into his fist. Dazed blue eyes followed the motion avidly, and it didn't take long before he was coming himself, spraying creamy liquid over Obi Wan's belly and chest. With a low groan, he crumpled forward.

Obi Wan caught him.

They curled up together, breathing gradually returning to normal. Obi Wan ran one hand lazily through the mess on his chest, drawing abstract patterns in it, rubbing it into his skin. Qui Gon extended a finger and traced through one of the patterns, and Obi Wan reached out. Captured the hand. Sucked their mingled cream from it.

Qui Gon took a deep breath. Before he could say a word, Obi Wan said softly, "Sweetest dream I've ever had."

He couldn't help it. He laughed. "Not the standard cure for seasickness, but I suppose it will do until something better comes along."

Obi Wan grinned up at him wickedly. "Anything better than this will kill me."

"That which does not kill you makes you stronger." Qui Gon twisted his hand in Obi Wan's grip, capturing the smaller hand in his own and licking at the palm. Obi Wan shivered. "And you, my Padawan, are going to be very strong indeed."

The ship rocked under them, and Obi Wan paled. "If I ever get off this ball of water, that is."

Qui Gon leaned down and kissed him, thoroughly, until all thoughts of his stomach had completely disappeared.

FIN


End file.
